


Random One-Shot/Drabble Collection

by Asgardian_princess_5



Category: Sherlock (TV), Supernatural, The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: F/M, Fluff, I'm Bad At Tagging, Multiple Fandoms, POV First Person, Reader-Insert, Romance
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-03-17
Updated: 2016-06-29
Packaged: 2018-03-16 16:05:31
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 13
Words: 12,857
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3494528
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Asgardian_princess_5/pseuds/Asgardian_princess_5
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Just a collection of random one shots/drabbles/scenes that I've written for multiple fandoms! It's all in first person, so it's basically a reader insert. Tags will change as I add more fandoms and characters. Rated Teen & Up mainly for mild language and some suggestive material.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Sweater: John Watson

I padded into the small kitchen of 221B, my bare feet protesting slightly due to the mildly cold floors. I mumbled a half-awake "morning" in the direction of whoever was sitting at the table. I heard John utter a quiet "good morning" before my ears detected the rustling sound of him turning the page of the morning's newspaper. I poured some coffee into the top of the machine and started it with the press of a button before turning around to lean against the counter. 

I surveyed the apartment from my viewpoint. It was a bit cluttered, but that was to be expected. I noticed that Sherlock wasn't home. He was probably off working on a case, or something. I was his friend, but I still had no idea what he did in his free time. Excluding the odd experiments that filled the kitchen. Those I was, unfortunately, aware of. I suddenly felt the presence of someone watching me. I looked over...

And saw John staring at me, his blue-grey eyes focused only on me. "What?" I asked, confused by the gaze of my boyfriend. 

"You're wearing my sweater," he stated. 

I looked down at myself. It was true. I'd stolen one of John's sweaters that morning- a particularly soft, navy blue one that I happened to love. I'd slipped it over top of my tank top, where it hung a little loosely off of my frame and covered the majority of my short shorts. 

I shrugged. "It's comfortable. If you'd rather me not wear it, I can go change," I offered. 

John shook his head as I poured myself a mug of coffee. "No, no, that's not what I meant! It just... looks really good on you..." 

I smiled a little and abandoned my mug on the countertop to stand behind John. I wrapped my arms around him from behind and rested my chin on his shoulder, leaning on to him. "You're so cute when you're flustered," I stated affectionately, kissing his cheek. 

"You're a bad, bad woman," he muttered and I laughed. "You don't want a repeat of last night, do you?" 

"Maybe that's exactly what I want," I whispered in his ear. I was already tired, but if last night were to happen again- it'd be totally worth the exhaustion that followed. 

"I told you; you're a bad, bad woman," John repeated. 

I giggled and moved in front of him to sit on his lap, straddling his hips. I looped my arms around his neck and ran the tips of my fingers lightly through his hair. "So... are we going to experience this repeat of last night's events?" I asked quietly.

His hands came to rest on either side of my waist. "Well, it is Saturday, Sherlock's not here... And you're looking bloody hot in my sweater... So I'd say yes."

I grinned back at John and crashed my lips onto his. He responded quickly, kissing me back just as passionately until we both had to come up for air. He leaned his forehead against mine and spoke. 

"That sweater looks amazing on you, but it will have to come off eventually." 

"Oh yeah, I know," I assured him before our lips met again. 


	2. Stolen Pop Tarts: Thor Odinson

A loud knock sounded from the door of my bedroom at the Avengers Tower. "Who is it?" I called out, marking the page of my novel and sitting up in bed.

"It is Thor, my lady," the blond-haired god outside my door responded. He sounded slightly distressed, so I sighed and got up out of bed.

I swung the door open and looked up at my visitor. "What's up?" I asked.

"A predicament has arisen that requires your assistance," he explained.

"Why does it have to be _my_  assistance?" I was really only annoyed because I'd had to stop reading. At any other time I'd be perfectly willing to help. 

"You are the only person that I do not suspect of the foul thievery that has occurred." 

"If someone stole something from you, that's probably a matter for the police, Thor." 

Thor shook his head. "I do not wish to deal with those uniformed Midgardians." 

I rolled my eyes at his stubbornness. "What was stolen?" 

"All of my Pop Tarts are missing. Will you help me find them?"  

I sighed. That man sure did love his artificially-flavored toaster pastries. I knew he wouldn't rest until they were found, so I had no choice but to help. Also, it was quite difficult to resist Thor's puppy dog eyes... especially since they made him even more adorable than he already was. 

"Okay, I'll help," I said aloud. 

Thor pulled me into an unexpected hug. "Thank you! I knew you'd help!" I blushed at the close contact and awkwardly backed out of the hug when it was done. 

"So... where do we start?" I asked. 

 

Thor had voiced his suspicions to me and so we wandered into the common area of the tower together, ready to investigate. Tony and Bruce were nowhere to be found. I assumed they were in the lab downstairs. Natasha was kicking Clint's ass at some sort of video game. Steve and Bucky were watching the assassins battle it out on screen, but as soon as I entered the room with Thor, Bucky mumbled something to Steve and stood up as if intending to leave the room. 

"Don't you dare run way, James Buchanan Barnes!" I warned him sternly, using the best "mom voice" that I could muster. 

"Crap," the Winter Soldier muttered, and began to run toward the door on the opposite side of the common area. 

"Bucky, get back here!" I yelled. I was about to run after him myself, but Thor was quicker than me. Mjolnir had made a sudden appearance in the Asgardian's hand and Thor looked like he would gladly bash Bucky over the head with it. Now I had a completely different problem on my hands- I couldn't have my friends trying to kill each other. 

So I made the decision to step between two men who were much larger and stronger than myself and stop any injuries that might occur. "Thor!" I yelled frantically, managing to catch his attention. "Don't hurt Bucky!" 

"But he has my Pop Tarts!" Thor protested. 

"I know, just... don't kill him, please. I'll sort it out. Now put Mjolnir down." Looking slightly dejected, Thor let the hammer slide out of his grip and onto the floor with a loud thud. I turned to Bucky, now that I was sure he wouldn't be injured by the god behind me. 

"Don't think you're getting off easy because I just defended you," I said seriously. Bucky's smile dropped from his face. "Did you steal Thor's Pop Tarts?" 

Bucky nodded slowly. "Okay," I said. "You will apologize to Thor and then you will return all of them, got it?" 

"Yes," Bucky mumbled. I had to stop myself from visibly rolling my eyes. I was dealing with two grown men who were acting like five year old kids. 

"Good. Problem solved," I commented, turning to walk across the room. "And the next time you all decide to act like imbeciles, don't rely on me to fix your problems!" I exclaimed, to no one in particular. "No wonder Fury looks tired all the time." 

 

Later that afternoon, another knock came at my bedroom door. "What do you want?" I asked, slightly irritated. I closed my laptop and got up from my desk to answer the door for the second time that day. I prepared myself for the worst- living with the Avengers is not always a walk in the park, as had been evidenced by the previous events of the day. I swung open the door with force to find an all-too-familiar face on the other side. 

"I swear, if Bucky stole your damn Pop Tarts _again_..." I began, but Thor interrupted me before I could finish my threat. 

"No, no! You misunderstand! This isn't about the Pop Tarts." He paused. "Well, it sort of is, but not in the way that you would think." 

"Well," I said when he paused. "Go on." 

"I wanted to apologize for my actions," he said sincerely. "It was not my intention to act like an imbecile." 

"Thor... I didn't actually mean it," I explained, feeling guilty for the sad look on his face when he spoke the insult. "I was just frustrated. Also, apology accepted," I finished, grinning up at him. Thor smiled in return before looking suddenly (and uncharacteristically) embarrassed. "What is it?" I asked.

"Umm," he began, "well, I consulted Tony about what to do when you apologize to a woman and he said to bring flowers. Since I do not have flowers or the time to procure them, I thought you might like these." It wasn't until that moment that I noticed that his right hand had been hidden behind his back. He brought his arm forward, and held out a familiar silver foil packet: Pop Tarts.

I smiled again. Thor was adorable. And I knew that giving up his Pop Tarts was a big deal, so he must have felt truly sorry for his earlier actions. I accepted the food. "Thanks," I said quietly, not sure of what else to say. Suddenly, the urge to kiss him washed over me and my cheeks flushed a light pink. I had to resist... I couldn't just kiss him right then and there... but I felt myself leaning in toward him regardless, as if it were an automatic reaction...

I tilted my head upward and brushed my lips against his cheek. It was just barely a kiss, but it would do for now. I leaned back and smiled very slightly at the man standing across from me, who looked slightly confused, but pleased all the same. "See you around," I whispered and slipped back into my bedroom, shutting the door behind me.


	3. Emotional Crisis: Clint Barton

I sat on a couch in the common area of the Avengers Tower. Just sat there, silently, oblivious to my surroundings, staring aimlessly at the wall opposite me. My knees were pulled up to my chest and my arms wrapped around my legs, as if drawing myself as far inward as possible. Internal conflicts are the worst. 

Out of the corner of my eye, I saw Bruce enter the room. Catching sight of me, he walked over with a frown on his face. "What's wrong?" He asked gently. 

After a moment of deciding whether or not to respond, I opened my mouth. "I am a terrible person," I whispered, still staring blankly at the wall. 

Bruce looked concerned and left the room momentarily, before returning with Natasha a few minutes later. I sighed internally. I loved Natasha and she was a great friend, but I wasn't in the mood to be questioned about my feelings at the moment. 

"So, Bruce said you were having some sort of emotional crisis?" Natasha inquired quietly as she sat down next to me. I shrugged in response, choosing to remain silent.

"Do you want to talk about it?" She asked, trying to get me to speak again. I shook my head. After a minute or two of silence, Natasha sighed heavily and stood up. "Screw it. I'm getting Barton in here." She left the room, taking Bruce with her. I didn't remain alone for too long, however. 

It couldn't have been more than five minutes before I heard the familiar sound of an air vent scraping backward overhead. I glanced up and, sure enough, my archer boyfriend dropped gracefully to the floor from his previous spot in the ceiling. He looked up at my troubled face and the expression on his face dropped as well. 

"Okay, something's seriously wrong," Clint observed. "You usually look happy to see me or you yell at me for probably damaging the ventilation system. What's up?" He sat next to me on the couch, and I knew that I'd have to explain to him what was going on. Clint was a determined person, and I knew that he wouldn't give up until I talked. 

"I'm a terrible person," I repeated the words I'd originally spoken to Bruce.

Clint reached out and put a hand on my shoulder. "Baby... no, you're not," he reassured me.

I unfolded myself and stood up, shying away from his touch. "I've hurt people, Clint! I've tortured people and... and I've killed people and I've just followed Fury's orders and I have never questioned it until now!" A few tears leaked from my eyes after my outburst. 

Clint sighed. "Being an agent is not an easy job, trust me. I know. But you have to believe me when I say that the people we've hurt have deserved it. Fury doesn't order us to kill unless it's unavoidable." He paused for a second, and I felt his gaze on me. "And if doing all of those things makes you a bad person, then I'm infinitely worse. I've had more experience than you with this kind of work for SHIELD." 

I sniffled quietly and refused to look at him or acknowledge his words in any way. My gaze remained firmly on the ground. Clint moved to stand in front of me and placed his hands on my shoulders. 

"Baby, look at me," he pleaded. Defeated by his sad voice and the puppy-dog eyes that he was surely giving me, I raised my head and our eyes met. "You're not a bad person, okay?" Clint gently brushed away my last lingering tears with his thumb. 

I nodded slowly.

He shook his head. "Not good enough. I want to hear you say it." 

I sighed loudly and rolled my eyes. "Fine. I'm not a bad person," I stated. 

Clint smiled and kissed my forehead. "That's my girl." 

 


	4. Still Alive: Phil Coulson

I let out a sigh of relief as I entered my apartment, locking the door behind me. I leaned against the wall and closed my eyes momentarily. It had been a long day- but then, when  _wasn't_ it? Working for SHIELD could stress anyone out, and with the number of assignments I'd had this week along with a mission on Wednesday, it goes without saying that I was excited at the arrival of Friday evening. My life was continuously filled with hectic energy and the most unexpected of events. I would not, however, have expected what would happen to me next, under any kind of circumstances.

I set my bag on the small table in the entryway to the apartment and hung my coat on a hook on the wall. After kicking off my shoes, I entered my bedroom and changed into more comfortable clothes, suited for lounging around at home all evening. For me, that consisted of sweatpants and a comfortable violet sweater. I padded barefoot to the kitchen, satisfied with a renewed sense of comfort, and flicked on the light switch. I opened the refrigerator door and peered inside for something to eat. As I shifted through containers of food and mentally debated on the benefits of ordering take-out, the unanticipated happened. 

"Hello." A male voice sounded from behind me. My reflexes kicked in, I grabbed a knife from the knife block on the counter, whirled to face the intruder... and stopped dead in my tracks.

" _Phil_ ," I whispered in disbelief. A loud clatter sounded from the ground and I looked down, slightly absentmindedly. The knife had slipped out of my shock-slackened grip and fallen to the floor. I was lucky that the blade missed my foot, preventing possible injury, but I was a bit preoccupied with other events to notice my own self. There he was- my fiancee- standing in my kitchen, like nothing had ever happened and it was just anther usual day. He was dressed in his typical suit and tie with his hair combed neatly, as always. But this couldn't be happening- Phil was dead.

"Oh God," I whispered, running my fingers through my hair, a nervous habit. "I'm finally going crazy, aren't I?" I stared intently at Phil, who was surely a hallucination of some sort, as if hoping he would disappear under my gaze and I could shake off this whole ordeal as some weird trick of psychology. I shook my head, but it didn't help, and Phil didn't disappear. He looked so real...

Phil shook his head. "You're not hallucinating, if that's what you're thinking," he said. That was exactly what I was thinking, but then he did always know me so well.

"But- how?" I asked vaguely, stumbling over my words. "You- you were dead! I saw you in a hospital room when Fury brought me in to say goodbye! And then there was the funeral and everything-" I began to hyperventilate a little as I panicked. I took a few deep breaths to attempt to calm myself.

After exhaling loudly and looking directly at the man across from me, I spoke again in a surprisingly calm manner. "How are you alive?" 

"It's complicated," Phil admitted. "I'm only just figuring it out myself. Fury found a way to bring me back, and he's been quite vague about the details and very eager to keep them hidden. I'm not sure how he managed to do it, but... here I am." 

I stood for a moment in silence, giving my overwhelmed brain a bit of time to attempt to process this information. I was at a loss for words. I had absolutely no idea what to say. I mean, what _can_ you say to your alive-again fiancee who magically (it would seem) returned from the world of the dead? I still wasn't sure what to do after several moments of uncomfortable and awkward silence, so I trusted my gut instincts.

I walked slowly across the kitchen toward Phil. He didn't move closer, but he didn't move further away either. I could tell he was uncertain of what my reaction was going to be. In a brief moment, I had closed the gap between our bodies and my arms were flung around his torso. He returned the embrace, his hands moving to their usual place, on my waist. I rested my forehead against his shoulder and reveled in the familiar warmth of his body pressed against mine, the deep, slightly musky scent of his cologne, the way it felt to hold him after months of believing he was dead.

After a long time of just standing there and holding him tight, I cleared my throat. "Just don't infect me with your zombie virus, or whatever it is," I mumbled against his suit. 

Phil chuckled, the familiar sound bringing the first true smile in months to my face. "I'll try not to."         


	5. Ticklish: Steve Rogers

"That was utterly exhausting," I sighed, flopping face-first onto the bed. I'd just experienced the most intense training of my life, and that was saying something because I've trained a lot. 

I felt the bed sink under weight, to the left of me. Steve must have sat down. "I've experienced worse," he said. From the tone of his voice, I could tell he was smirking at me. 

I flipped over so that I was lying on my back instead of my stomach. "Well, excuse me, but not all of us fought in a world war and are super soldiers," I retorted with sarcasm, poking him in the side. 

Steve rolled his eyes and poked my stomach in retaliation. I squeaked loudly and my hands flew out to sway his away. I was extremely ticklish, especially around my stomach and sides. Steve knew this already of course, but was reminded of it in that particular moment. He grinned mischievously, and his blue eyes lit up brilliantly. 

Meanwhile, my eyes widened in fear. "No!" I shook my head side to side, frantically. "No, don't you dare! Don't even think about-" 

But Steve's hands had already reached my stomach and I was cut off by my own gasps and giggles. I was laughing so hard that breathing was beginning to become a problem. I squirmed and tried to push Steve away, but I couldn't force him off me. 

 _"Damn his super strength,"_ I thought, as I fought for my freedom. The only chance I had of a way out was moving myself away. I grabbed the comforter for support, scrambled away from Steve- and tumbled off of the bed and onto the floor. 

I stretched out from the weird and crumpled position in which I'd fallen with a quiet mumbled "Ouch." 

I looked up at the bed, and Steve's head popped over the edge of it, looking back down at me. "Are you okay?" He asked, looking concerned. 

I nodded and sat up slowly. Steve offered a hand to help pull me up, which I gratefully accepted. I crawled back up onto the bed and snuggled into Steve's side. His arm went around me automatically and I smiled. I liked to revel in the little things. 

I looked up at him. "If you ever do that again, I will kick your ass." 

Steve laughed and kissed the top of my head. "I'm sure you will." 


	6. Deduce: Sherlock Holmes

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I haven't really written Sherlock before (because he's a difficult character to write accurately, for me), so I apologize if he's a bit OOC. Thanks for all the hits and kudos- it really means a lot!

I wander out of my room around noon on a Saturday and enter the main part of the flat in 221B. I don't usually stay hidden away in the morning, but I'd had a lot of late nights the past week, what with helping Sherlock on cases and I needed some time to myself to relax. And by "helping" I mean "being frantically dragged about all of London" and "being a human companion so Sherlock doesn't look completely insane when he talks aloud." Sometimes I don't know why I put up with his quirkiness and stay with him. Is it simply because we're good friends, and that's what friends are supposed to do? Maybe it's because I'm naturally drawn to people of a higher intellect. Maybe it's because John's left since he's engaged to Mary. Maybe I'm just worried that he'll pull a disappearing act and leave all of us again, like he did after the Moriarty incident. But I know the real reason, the underlying and most definitely selfish reason why I'm still here- it's because I've fallen hopelessly in love with an unfairly attractive and highly-functioning sociopath who's got a knack for making other people feel intellectually inferior. I can't leave him because I care about him. It's as simple as that. 

I heave an overly dramatic sigh as I fix up a pot of tea for myself and the aforementioned genius, who's currently playing his violin near the window. It's a sad and desperate tune, full of longing, and it matches my mood as I wallow in the depths of self pity. As I pour out the tea, I decide to try and look less negatively at the whole situation. I'm aware of the evident fact that Sherlock is "married to his work" (his words, not mine) and that he doesn't notice me, at least not in the way that I'd like him to. Now I've just got to come to terms with the whole thing. I grab both of our mugs and the morning's paper off the kitchen table before making my way to the vicinity of John's armchair. I've progressively taken over the seat in the weeks since he's moved out, but I still let him sit there when he comes to visit. 

I set one of the mugs on the desk, near where Sherlock is making his music. The curly-haired man either takes no notice of me, or doesn't acknowledge my presence. I assume the latter is correct- nothing gets past him- but I don't take offense. After all, I'm used to it. He sees everything, but not everything is important enough to warrant his attention at any given moment. I sink down in the chair and cross my legs over one another, sitting straight up. I balance the newspaper on my knees, taking sips of tea while reading the latest stories. As usual, Sherlock makes an appearance in the headlines once. Sometimes he's mentioned multiple times. It really depends on the number of cases he's solved that week and the severity of said cases. Once upon a time, I would have made some sort of joke about his fame, but it's become so regular that I don't always think about it. I debate making a joke now, but it doesn't seem to be the right time.

Sherlock's not been himself the last few weeks. Sure, he still has his moments when he infuriatingly flaunts his intelligence, or when he says something awkward or inappropriate in a social situation, but he's not as happy as he's been in the past. Sherlock Holmes has never been a particularly lighthearted man, at least not in the six years that I've known him, but he usually takes some joy in solving cases and the like. Lately, however, he's been quite closed-off and distant. He's been thinking more silently. All of his odd experiments have been abandoned in the kitchen. He hasn't left the flat, except on business specifically concerning cases. He even snapped at Mrs. Hudson the other morning for no reason. Something is certainly troubling my detective friend, and I've slowly become more determined to find out what... even though I have a pretty good idea already.        

I summon a minor amount of courage on the spot. "Sherlock?" I ask tentatively.

My voice is quiet, but he hears it regardless, even over the sound his instrument makes. He pauses, his bow sliding off the strings and causing the room to become abnormally quiet. "Yes?" He asks, his deep voice is quiet as well.

"What's wrong?"

He pauses for a long moment, his eyes staring into my own. "Nothing," he finally says.

I sigh. "Sherlock, you've been playing the violin for three straight hours. Yesterday you played for four. Not that it isn't lovely, but... Well, you never play this long, even when you're solving a case."

Sherlock simply places his violin and bow on the desk and picks up his tea, which has surely gone cold by now. He sits in his chair across from me and speaks again. "If it's something wrong with only me, why don't you just let it alone?" 

"Because you and I both know what's wrong. And admitting it might help you." Convincing Sherlock to talk about his feelings is a shot in the dark at best, but it doesn't hurt to try. 

"Well, if you're so _certain_ that you know," he begins irritably, "then you should be able to tell me what's amiss. _Deduce._ " 

The corners of my lips sink into a frown. He has the audacity to challenge me when I'm trying to help? I refrain from rolling my eyes- there's no need to antagonize him further- and I make the decision to go along with his game. It's the only way I'll have even a remote chance of getting him to admit to his emotions. 

"Well, you've been playing the violin a fair bit lately, which means you've been thinking a lot," I begin. His head nods almost imperceptibly, as if to affirm my current comment and encourage me to continue. "You've also been irritable, which means you're most likely angry at someone or something. You yelled at Mrs. Hudson on Wednesday and you snapped at me last night, suggesting that your anger is pent up and you're taking it out on other people but not the person you're truly angry with, seeing as neither myself nor Mrs. Hudson have done anything wrong. This anger is most likely hiding a fear."  

I pause before continuing. "This is about John. You don't like that he's moved out. You're afraid he'll stop visiting. You're afraid things won't be like they were before. You're afraid of major change and loss of one of the few people you trust, and this is just too much for you." 

Sherlock stares at me, his gaze piercing my own, before he speaks softly. "Your deductions are correct." 

"Look," I say, folding up the newspaper and laying it aside, "I miss John as well. He's my friend too. But there's no sense in not living your life like usual. Besides, John still visits and solves cases with us sometimes. And I know that he's your best friend, and I can in no way make up for that, but I know what you feel like, and I will try and help, if I can." 

An awkward silence permeates the room until the man across from me whispers, "You do help." My gaze shifts up to meet his, in shock due to this sudden confession. He clears his throat awkwardly. "I mean, you help with cases and with... the friendship thing..." his voice trails off into nothingness as my cheeks flush a light pink from flattery and embarrassment. Sherlock's never said that I was important to him in any way, and this is the closest he's ever come to saying anything of the sort.

Thankfully, my phone beeps, signaling a text message and diffusing the awkward tension of the room simultaneously. I slide the device out of my pocket and unlock the screen to open the message.

"It's Greg," I say aloud, addressing Sherlock.

"Greg?" He asks, his brow wrinkling adorably in confusion. 

"Lestrade," I say in clarification, rolling my eyes. This man was the only consulting detective in the world, but he couldn't remember the name of one of his colleagues that he saw on a regular basis. "Anyway, he's got a new case. You want it?" 

"What is it?" 

"Double homicide," I say, standing up and stretching my arms in front of me. 

"Boring," Sherlock mutters under his breath. 

"Well that's good," I say, slipping on my boots that were by the door and pulling a black leather jacket over top of my jeans and tee shirt. "Then it shouldn't take us very long." I grab Sherlock's trench coat and blue scarf before dumping them into his lap unceremoniously. 

"You're going to make me go out?" He asks incredulously. 

I raise my eyebrows. "Unless you think this case is too much for you to handle?" I challenge.

Sherlock looks down and exhales loudly, defeated. 

"Great; I'll let Greg know we're on our way." I pull out my phone again and send a short text in reply concerning our arrival at Scotland Yard in the near future. 

"Why are you doing this?" Sherlock asks, clearly still reluctant to go, as we walk down the stairs to head outside. 

"Because," I reply, locking the door to the flat behind us, "you need to get out of the house. And I'm helping, like I said I would. Or didn't you like that?" 

A rare smile flashes briefly across the detective's face as he hails a cab, and I can't help but deduce- he does appreciate me, at least as a friend. And I can accept that. 


	7. Office Romance: Greg Lestrade

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Set post-season three (Read at your own discretion- I don't want to give any spoilers away!). I think Greg Lestrade needs more love, so voila! I wrote this!

I stepped out of the passenger side of the police car as Detective Inspector Lestrade finished parking it. The lights from the other cars parked at the crime scene flashed brightly, illuminating the dark streets. I was hoping to get this investigation completed quickly- it was already ten o'clock in the evening, the day had been long, and I wanted nothing more than to go home and sleep.  _"Well, that's unlikely,_ _"_ I decided as I ducked under the yellow crime scene tape and walked inside the house to where a group of our colleagues from Scotland Yard already stood around two bodies. Two bodies meant two times the amount of work- we were going to be here a while.

"So, where do we start, boss?" I asked Greg, with a slight teasing tone in my voice at the word "boss." We were good friends and had been working together in the same division for two years, so I could get away with stuff like that.

He sighed. "Go ahead and look around. I'm going to talk with Donovan." I looked up and, sure enough, I spotted Sally Donovan across the room. She waved at us and I waved politely back before taking my boss's suggestion and speaking with some fellow police officers. I eventually made my way over to the forensics team, who was busy taking pictures to document the scene, and saw that Anderson was in charge.

"Hi, Anderson," I greeted. "What do we have so far?"

He nodded at me in acknowledgement. "Two females, both in their mid-twenties, by the looks of it. Both died from a gunshot wound to the head, most likely from a handgun, although we have to take the information to ballistics before we get a definite answer. The elderly lady who lives next door heard three shots and called the police. We haven't figured out where the third shot went. There's some slight bruising around the wrists of the blonde woman, but nothing on the brunette one, so far. No weapons were found on the scene." 

"Okay," I mumbled, thinking it over in my head. Suddenly, Greg appeared at my shoulder, snapping me out of my thoughts and back to the situation at hand. He looked mildly concerned. "What's wrong?" I asked, frowning slightly.

"There was a note left on the refrigerator in the kitchen," he responded, gesturing in the general direction of said room. "You know those plastic magnets that are shaped like letters?" I nodded, picturing the brightly colored symbols in my mind. "Well, that's what the note was left in."

"What did it say?" Anderson inquired from behind me.

" _'Get Sherlock,'_ " Lestrade recited gravely.

"Just like before. So, Moriarty is back, and at large," I said. "Lovely," I added quietly, with a little sarcasm. 

Greg turned to me. "Can you phone Sherlock? He needs to see this."

I sighed. "I can try. You know how he doesn't listen to me, though. I can't guarantee anything."

"Thanks; you're the best," Greg said with a grateful smile. "If all else fails, try talking to John. He's easier to reason with." He reached a hand up and squeezed my shoulder gently, a friendly gesture that still brought a pink flush to my cheeks, before walking away to speak with someone else.

I looked up and saw Anderson smirking at me. "Shut up," I snapped at him, blushing a shade darker from irritation. I pulled my phone out of my jacket pocket and searched through my contacts before finding Sherlock's number and moving to stand in a quieter corner of the house. The phone rang straight through to voice-mail. I frowned, even though I hadn't really expected anything more. I called John instead, who picked up on the second ring.

"Hello, John," I said. 

"Hi," the doctor responded. "What's up?"

"We've got a case and Greg wants Sherlock to come down here. I tried calling him, but he didn't answer his phone."

John laughed. "That's usual. Here, I'll get him."

"Thanks!"

"Hello?" Sherlock's voice sounded through the phone.

"We've got a case and Lestrade wants you down here."

The consulting detective groaned. "It's probably boring, and I was working on an experiment, so you can tell Lestrade I won't be there."

I sighed and rolled my eyes. "Sherlock, you have to-"

"Is Anderson on forensics?" he asked.

"Yes."

"Then all the more reason for me not to go."

"Sherlock! Get over your childish feud and get your lazy arse here! We think it's Moriarty, for God's sake!" I yelled into the phone.

There was a long pause and then a loud sigh. "What's the address?" I smiled triumphantly and gave it to him.

 

Fifteen minutes later, I stood outside in the cool night air with Greg and Sally Donovan, waiting for the consulting detective and his doctor companion to arrive. Sally was, as per usual, expressing her distaste for the aforementioned detective. 

"Why'd you have to call in the freak?" She complained loudly to Lestrade. "He's not technically with the police. You could get in trouble for giving him access to police information, _again_!" 

"Excuse me?" I remarked from the other side of Greg. "But  _who_ was the one who got him in trouble in the first place? No one knew or cared about Sherlock's consulting until you and Anderson ran your mouths and made it into a big deal." There was a small shred of me that had never really forgiven them for what they'd done, but at least Anderson had shown some regret for it afterward. Sally was just as remorseless as before. 

She opened her mouth to respond to my comments, but Greg held up a hand to prevent it. "Both of you, stop arguing." He turned to Sally. "I acknowledge your concern, but we're dealing with Moriarty again. Sherlock needs to be here." He turned toward me. "And I appreciate your defense of my decisions, but I can't have my division fighting one another." I nodded in understanding and turned my gaze back toward the road, where two silhouettes had suddenly appeared in the dark. As they approached the light I saw that they were, indeed, the two men we had been waiting on. 

We greeted the consultants, Sally a bit coldly. "Thanks for coming," Greg said. 

"Not a problem," Sherlock replied. "Especially seeing as there are some interesting new developments in your workplace dynamics." 

"Sherlock, can we _not_ do this right now?" I asked. 

"Yes," John agreed. "Moriarty, remember?"

"He's not going anywhere, as he has made perfectly clear in the past," Sherlock shrugged and then turned back to me. "You, my dear friend, appear to be at the very center of these new dynamics." 

"What?" I asked in confusion. "I hardly think that I'm at the center of anything." 

"Oh, but you are. To begin, there's clearly some disparity between yourself and Sergeant Donovan, most likely concerning your work. It's a recent fight because Lestrade looks aggravated with the both of you at the moment. He's more annoyed with Donovan though: he's not standing as close to her as he is to you, and generally she's more of an annoyance than you. Maybe his proximity is due to the general personality difference, but it's more likely the result of the unresolved sexual tension between yourself and the Detective Inspector. I'd caution you against asking her out, as you planned to do, Gavin- favoritism is often an undesirable thing in the workplace." 

After a moment or two of awkward silence, the man beside me clears his throat uncomfortably. A quick glance out of the corner of my eye reveals that his cheeks are almost as pink as my own. "Greg," he says. "It's Greg, not Gavin. Come on... let's just go and solve this case so we can all go home."  And with that he lead Sherlock and John inside, leaving me standing dumbstruck by the side of the road.

 

Almost an hour later, everyone gradually began to leave the crime scene. One by one, police vehicles pulled out of their parking spaces and drove away, back to our headquarters. That's when I came across an awkward thought: I had been driven over here by Greg, and I would have to catch a ride back to Scotland Yard with him. That meant either awkward confrontation or awkward silence- neither of which seemed a desirable option- as a result of Sherlock's earlier deductions. I exhaled heavily and wandered back inside the house to find Greg, Sherlock, and John, all three of whom had not yet left the premises. 

Most of the house was now empty, giving it a more creepy and haunted feeling than it had even before. I found the three men I was searching for in the kitchen. They were speaking hurriedly, in hushed tones, which abruptly stopped as I entered the room. I thought I heard Greg whisper _"Just drop it, okay?"_ to Sherlock in an irritated tone. I raised an eyebrow in curiosity, but didn't inquire about the suspicious conversation. 

"Are you all finished?" I asked. "I'd like to get back to the station and start typing up some of the reports for this before I go home."

"Yes," Sherlock responded. "I've seen everything I need to." I bade farewell to the detective and John before quietly following Greg outside. Neither of us spoke a single word to the other as we sat in the car and Greg began the drive back to Scotland Yard. After about five minutes of unbearably awkward silence, the man beside me cleared his throat, almost as if he were about to say something.

I shifted my gaze from out of the window to my right, where Greg sat. "Yes?" I asked quietly. 

"I... About what Sherlock said earlier, I-" He began. 

I shook my head. "It's fine. We don't have to talk about it."

"But we should. Just to clear things up, you know." 

"What is there to clear up?"

" _Unresolved sexual tension_ , according to Sherlock," Greg quoted. He looked at me and I raised an eyebrow at him, causing the two of us to simultaneously burst into laughter for a few moments. 

My last giggle subsided and my mouth opened in speech, seemingly of its own accord. "I like you. A lot." I hadn't really meant to admit it aloud- the secret had just sort of spilled out.

After a tense few seconds, during which I was worried Greg didn't hear me or that he hated me, he spoke. "Good, because I like you a lot, too."

I couldn't help but smile. Perhaps Sherlock's observational skills served a good purpose this time. After a few moments of silence, I decided to test the waters. "Greg?"

"Yeah?"

"Does this mean I can come in late to work tomorrow?" 

Greg laughed.  "No. But you can have a drink with me tomorrow night?" He phrased the words as a question, to make his intent clear. 

I smiled. "I'd love to."


	8. Any Time: Bucky Barnes

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Set Post- Captain America: The Winter Soldier... so if you haven't seen it, just know that there might be some minor spoilers/references to the plot. Sorry for the massively long waiting period between the last update and now- I've been super busy! Also I apologize because this chapter's shorter than some of the others. As always, thanks for reading!

Ever since James Buchanan Barnes had been admitted to his living quarters at the Avengers Tower, I had been informally assigned to the post of "friend and personal assistant while Steve Rogers is away." The Winter Soldier's memories had luckily been restored (for the most part) and his previous violent tendencies had faded. Fury had cleared him three months ago and allowed him to move into the Avengers Tower, where Steve, the remaining Avengers, and myself lived. The group had accepted him, some more hesitantly than others, and I could tell that several of them didn't yet fully trust the man with the metal arm. Steve and I were his two main friends, and I wasn't even sure how I'd gotten into that position. 

I suppose it had started when he had first arrived. Most of us had been in the main floor of the tower when Steve introduced his friend. I had been the first to greet him, smile at him, shake his hand. The others had followed my lead, a bit cautiously. We'd all heard about what the Winter Soldier could do, and Natasha had seen it in person. They had a valid reason to hesitate, I suppose. I, however, was close friends with Steve and had heard more about "Bucky," the gentler, kinder, more humorous man who'd been Steve's friend for ages. I chose to see the good in the man in front of me, disregarding the past. It hadn't been his fault, after all- he didn't ask to be brainwashed by Hydra. I was one of the few that seemed to warm up to him relatively quickly, and so Steve had become comfortable with leaving me in charge of Bucky while he was away on missions.

And so I kept Bucky company. His favorite thing to do was learn about new things that were unfamiliar to him, so I'd taught him about the "modern" world. He'd learned how to use computers and smartphones _much_ more quickly than Steve had, but most kitchen appliances still gave him trouble. Somewhere along the line of teaching and hanging out, Bucky and I had become friends. Meanwhile, I had found myself falling hard for him. I refused to let my feelings come in the way of our friendship- I was sure that the attraction was one-sided. 

I turned these thoughts over and over in my mind as I wandered to the kitchen on the main floor for a midnight snack. The Avengers were half-way across the world somewhere, fighting some remaining Hydra forces, and I had been left at the tower with Bucky, as usual. Pepper was somewhere as well, but she tended to keep to herself. I searched through the cupboards and the fridge, before finding a slice of caramel cheesecake and deciding to eat it. I opened a drawer and retrieved a fork before making my way to the main living room and sitting cross-legged on the couch. My mind was still swirling with thoughts of Bucky- his long hair, his square jaw, the way his eyes lit up when he smiled... 

I shook my head to try and clear it. _"Get a grip,"_ I thought to myself. It wouldn't help me to obsess over Bucky. I found the TV remote and switched it on, hoping that watching something might take my mind off said man. I flipped through a couple of channels, finally settling on a rerun of Friends, one of my favorite shows. About halfway through the episode, I felt the couch sink slightly under added weight to my right. I turned my head to see Bucky. I prepared to say hello, but upon taking a closer look at his clearly distressed facial expression, I decided to change my approach.

I muted the TV and turned my body to the side so that I was facing him. "What's wrong?" I asked gently, looking into his blue eyes, glassy with unshed tears. 

"Nightmares," he mumbled. "It's nothing. I came down here because I couldn't sleep."

"Do you want to talk about it?" He still looked like he might cry, and I have to admit, I was a bit worried.

"Just flashbacks. Hydra stuff- the usual," he answered shortly. "You know what happened, don't you?" 

I shook my head. "Not really." I'd heard vague information from Steve, but all I knew for sure was that Hydra had tortured Bucky, and pretty badly.

Bucky launched into his story in a quiet, pained voice. "Pierce was behind most of it. He saw to me personally. I think I was like his own project- to create the strongest possible combat soldier, one so strong that he could compete with Captain America. But I could never question Pierce or Hydra or their procedures, so I got my memory wiped. It happened all the time. They had to force me into the chair so I could be tortured, but I always felt fine afterward. It wasn't a good feeling- just more of a strong feeling. When you don't have the past to bother you, it's pretty easy to just focus on your commands, and that was exactly what Pierce wanted. The worst time was when I first saw Steve, when he was fighting me and the mask fell off. He recognized me and said my name. I didn't know who he was talking about, but there was a nagging sense in the back of my mind telling me that I knew Steve. When I asked Pierce about it later, he shrugged it off, said I'd seen Steve on a mission a few days before, but I knew he wasn't telling me everything. Then I was forced under and they wiped my brain again, and I forgot about it until later. I was so close to recognizing my best friend and they just... took him from me." Bucky finished his story, his fists clenched in his lap, his eyes downcast. 

I sat speechless for a long moment. Finally, I reached out for Bucky's hands. I took them in mine and felt his fingers gradually relax out of their tightly curled position as some of his tension dissipated. I cleared my throat briefly and spoke. "I can't imagine going through any of that, and I know that Steve would probably be more helpful in this sort of situation because he knows more about this sort of stuff, but I do know one thing. You're strong, Bucky, stronger than most people. And you're kind and smart and a good person. You'll make it through this; I know you will."

Without warning, Bucky extracted his hands from my grip and pulled his arms around me. I returned the embrace without a second thought. "Thanks," he whispered next to my ear.

"Any time."           


	9. Lazy Morning: Bruce Banner

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This one has a little bit of suggestive content, just so you know. It's also a very short piece- sorry about that! Also, I want to sincerely apologize for not updating in a very long time- I've been extremely busy lately!

I woke from the pleasant land of dreams to the feeling of movement beside me. My arm shot out from under the blankets of its own accord, like a reflex, and my fingers wrapped around the wrist of my boyfriend, the source of the aforementioned movement of the bed.  I spared a quick glance at the digital clock on the bedside table- it was only six in the morning. 

"Where do you think you're going?" I demanded sleepily, my voice still slightly hoarse from its disuse overnight.  I yawned widely, unable to help myself: it was just _so early_. 

"To work," Bruce answered, turning around partially to look down at me, his chocolate brown eyes meeting my own. I rolled my eyes at his response. 

"Babe, it's Saturday," I pointed out. "Also, working with Tony in the labs is not really a job." 

"It sort of is," he attempted to defend himself. "We do stuff for SHIELD." 

I sighed. It was difficult work convincing this man sometimes. "You work far too much, Bruce. And it's the weekend." 

He still sat on the edge of the bed, staring down at me, clearly not giving in. "I'm sure Tony and SHIELD can manage a morning without you, baby. You don't have to work twenty four/seven."

The man sitting next to me sighed heavily. "Okay," he mumbled, looking slightly defeated, but not altogether upset about the situation either. I grinned in triumph and tugged on his wrist, pulling him back down onto the bed. His facial expression turned to one of surprise, and I giggled at his wide-eyed stare. Once he was lying on his back once more, I rolled over top of him and balanced my weight on my elbows.

"Besides, you've got me for company if you stay," I whispered with the most seductive tone I could muster, allowing our lips to brush together in the slightest of touches with every word. I moved my head away to pull back for a second, but Bruce's hand cupped the back of my neck and pulled me down to him. Our lips met, but this time with more intensity and pressure than before. Bruce grabbed my shoulders gently and flipped me over, rolling himself so that he was on top, our bodies pressed tightly together, legs entangled. My lips met his again with a passionate force I didn't know was possible. I moved my hands up to Bruce's hair, running my fingers through his already mussed-up curls while his own hands traced the outline of my hips.   

When we broke apart, gasping for air, I looked up at him, raising a skeptical eyebrow. "What happened to Mr. 'I-have-to-work-all-the-time'?" I asked teasingly.

"Shut up," Bruce responded with a smile before kissing me once more. Needless to say, I happily obliged.   


	10. Darling: Loki

"What are you doing inside on such a beautiful day, my darling?" The deep, alluring, familiar voice of my husband snapped me out of my reverie. Or maybe I was still daydreaming- after all, my husband is dead, and has been for quite some time.

Yet, when I turned toward the sound of his voice, he stood there in the middle of our shared bedchamber, clad in green and gold armor, raven-colored hair mildly tousled by wind. It was almost as if he'd never left. "Loki," I breathed, hardly daring to believe my eyes. "Oh, please tell me this is no cruel trick of magic," I muttered, mostly to myself.

Loki grinned, his lips parting into a distinctive mischievous smile. "I am no trick, I assure you." He offered me his left hand and I reached out and took it in both of my own. I traced the outline of his palm and fingers in amazement and surprise and then slipped my fingers down to the inside of his wrist. Sure enough, a steady pulse beat there beneath his pale skin. I turned my face upward to meet his gaze. "How are you still alive? You fell when the bridge was destroyed, your father and brother told me." 

"That doesn't matter. I'm here now," he said quietly, withdrawing his hand from my grasp and using it to push some of my hair behind my ear, his fingers lingering in my curls for longer than was necessary. Suddenly, he moved his hand to cup my face and drew me toward him, kissing me hungrily, desperately, the only way one can kiss his or her lover after being apart for so long.  I returned his kisses with equal passion until we broke apart, breathing more heavily than before. "I've missed you," he whispered, voice full of sincerity and longing. 

"Not as much as I've missed you," I replied quietly. We stood for another moment in silence, each savoring the comfort of the other person's arms. After a few more seconds, I pulled away, desperate to have my questions answered. "So where were you this whole time?" I asked my husband curiously. He had previously seemed eager to evade my questions of his whereabouts. It was to be expected- he was the god of mischief, after all- but he usually trusted me with most of his thoughts.

"Midgard," he answered.

I raised my eyebrows in confusion. "What were you doing there?"

"It does not matter, darling."

My lips curved slightly downward at the corners. Loki was hiding something from me, and I was determined to find out what it was. "Loki, why can't you tell me? It's not something serious, is it?" 

"I don't want to tell you; can't that be a satisfactory answer?"  His voice took on a vicious tone. 

"It can't be that bad-" 

"STOP! Just stop talking!" Loki yelled, his eyes seeming to burn with rage. I took a few small steps backward, shrinking away from his rage. An angry Loki was best left alone, as I'd learned in the past. He'd never hurt me or done anything unforgivable but he had breathtakingly uncontrollable anger that was best not to encourage, for it could easily worsen.

Loki had turned roughly on his heel and began pacing a good distance away from me when he first yelled. He muttered to himself under his breath briefly whilst prowling moodily back and forth over one area of the smooth floor. Abruptly he stopped and turned to face me, seeing that while I didn't look too terribly hurt by his shouting, I didn't look exactly happy either. 

"I'm sorry for getting angry, but... you'd hate me if I told you what I'm in the process of doing on Midgard."

"In the process?" I asked, repeating his words. "You have to go back?"

Loki sighed quietly. "Regrettably, yes." I frowned and the corner of his mouth quirked up into a small smile. "Trust me, I don't want to leave you again. But I have unfinished business on Midgard to return to. I promise that I will come back for you as soon as possible, my darling." His lips pressed gently against my forehead and I closed my eyes- desperately trying to memorize the moment so I could hold onto it- and when I opened them, he was gone. 


	11. "I Can't Lose You": Dean Winchester

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sorry if Dean's a bit OOC, but this is my first time writing him! Also, quick warning: there are mentions of blood, stitching up wounds and stuff like that. Also a couple of swear words, but nothing too crazy. Hope you guys enjoy!!!

The ride back to Bobby's house was marked by a particularly icy silence. Dean drove especially fast, his foot pressed firmly on the gas pedal. When Sam made a quiet comment about his driving to ensure that it was safe, Dean didn't provide his brother with an answer, but the gauge on the dashboard showed a slight decrease in speed of about 5 miles per hour. I sat in the all-too-familiar back seat of the Impala, gingerly pressing a towel on a wound on my shoulder in an attempt to stop the blood from flowing. I remained quiet for the entirety of the ride, as did Dean, and Sam only made a small comment here and there, in an unsuccessful attempt to break the tension.

Dean pulled into the driveway of Bobby's house still at a fast speed, and braked suddenly, causing me to wince and utter a weak groan when my injured shoulder bumped into the side of the car door. Sam looked back at me with concern written all over his face.

"Are you alright?" I nodded, still wincing a little, and readjusted the towel on my shoulder. It had become soaked in my blood, turning the tan-colored fabric a rusted sort of red color.

"Well stop looking at her and help her out of the car," Dean snapped at his brother before taking the keys out of the ignition and slamming the driver's side door. He made his way toward the house and went inside, slamming that door behind him too.

Sam got out of the front seat and opened the door behind before grabbing my uninjured arm to help lift me to my feet. I was beginning to feel a little dizzy from the blood loss so I leaned against Sam, who helped escort me to the door as quickly as I could go.

Bobby looked up from his conversation with Dean as Sam and I entered the house. Bobby's eyes widened in surprise when his gaze passed over my shoulder and he muttered a curse word under his breath. "Take her down to the bunker, Sam; there's a first aid kit on top of the table and some towels in one of the drawers."

"I'll do it," Dean volunteered quickly, turning around and walking over to me and Sam. Sam looked at his brother in confusion.

"Dean... are you sure you-"

"It's fine, Sammy," he snapped. "I'll take care of her." Sam passed me over to Dean and I leaned against my new companion for balance, my dizziness growing slowly worse by the minute, even though my shoulder had begun to stop bleeding. Even though Dean was clearly angry and irritated, his grip on me was surprisingly gentle as he led me down to the bunker with one hand supporting my injured arm and the other resting on my hip as his arm wrapped around my waist. Once we were inside the bunker, he set me on the bed carefully and moved quickly to find the first aid kit and towels that Bobby had referenced earlier.

He sat next to me on the bed and took off my used towel before using a fresh one to clean up any excess blood. "The gash is pretty deep. I'm gonna have to sterilize it and then you need stitches. It's gonna hurt." His tone wasn't as angry, but he certainly wasn't very warm and inviting either. But then, Dean is rarely a warm and inviting sort of guy, unless you really know him well.

"Okay," I replied quietly. I wasn't going to push for much more conversation yet, seeing as I wasn't sure if he was still mad, and there was a very good chance that he was. He took a small cloth and dipped it into the bottle of hydrogen peroxide, and I braced myself for the frigid sting of the liquid. Dean gently dabbed the cloth around the opening of my wound and I gasped shortly at the stinging pain. Dean made no comment as to my reaction, but he did press a little more gently with the cloth. After my skin had been sterilized, he doused a fresh needle in the liquid and unwrapped a packet of string in order to suture my wound. I made little gasps of pain here and there and felt as if I were constantly wincing, but the entire procedure didn't take long, and soon I had been sewn back together.

As Dean began to pack the medical supplies away, I found the bravery to speak about the problem at hand. "Dean... I'm sorry."

He paused his actions and turned to face me. "You're _sorry_?" he asked incredulously. "Sorry doesn't really cut it."

"I know," I replied shakily, "I just thought I knew what I was doing, and clearly I didn't."

"There were five demons in that house, possessing people that were twice your size!!! You're lucky all you got was that cut!" He raised his voice, though he wasn't quite shouting. "There's a reason we make plans before we hunt. You can't just abandon the plan and rush in without us to back you up because you think you might have a better idea in the moment!"

"Oh, like _you_ never take risks and put _your_ life on the line?" I scoffed, raising an eyebrow. The volume of my voice began to increase as well. "Well, I'm sorry for abandoning the small semblance of a plan that we had, but I was able to kill two of the demons by myself before the rest even got to me, and-" 

Dean slammed his fist on the table, causing me to jump at the loud noise. "Damn it, y/n! I can't lose you!" he shouted.

I felt some of the color drain out of my face at the confession, although maybe that was just from the loss of blood. I began to open my mouth to speak, but I wasn't sure what to say. This was an admittance of emotions, and Dean almost never talked about or showed his emotions. Except for maybe anger and frustration. But this... this was something deeper and more caring, something entirely new altogether. 

Noticing my mildly shocked expression and lack of a response, Dean cleared his throat a little. "I know I don't usually say things like this, but I care about you. A lot. You've always meant a lot to me, even a little bit more than family. Or, at least in a different way."

I felt a blush rising to my cheeks. This confession was much more than I had expected. 

Dean took a deep breath, before the words came spilling out: "I love you. And I always knew it would be hard losing you because I knew you'd go down fighting, like a true hunter. But I don't know... I somehow always hoped and assumed that I would be the one to go first. That I wouldn't have to watch you die; it'd be the other way around." Dean almost seemed like he was getting a little choked up, and I swear there were a few small tears welling up in his hazel eyes.

"And then tonight, when you just ran right into the place, I realized that I had assumed wrong- I might have had to watch you die, and I almost thought it was going to happen right there. And I'm so damn proud of you for hunting like you did and for ganking those sons of bitches, but I'm also scared as hell of losing you."

I stood and made my way to Dean before pulling him into the tightest hug I could give with my one good arm. He hesitated for a second, perhaps out of surprise, but then I felt his strong arms make their way around my body and he held me. We stood like that for a few minutes until I leaned back to break the hug and looked up at him.

"There's always going to be a risk of losing me," I said quietly. "Just like I'll always have the risk of losing you. I love you too, Dean. And even if that makes losing you one day harder for me, I'm willing to risk that because even when you die, I won't stop loving you."

Dean smiled a little at that and leaned down, kissing me sweetly. When we broke apart, I grinned as an idea popped into my head.

"What is it?" Dean asked warily, recognizing my facial expression.

"If you die first, do I get Baby?"

Dean raised a skeptical eyebrow. "I thought you weren't very interested in cars."

"No, but it might help you piss off Sam one last time," I said, grinning mischievously.


	12. Caught Kissing: Castiel

It was a lonely evening. Sam and Dean were out on a hunt somewhere in Ohio and had left me alone in the Men of Letters bunker to fend for myself for a few days while they investigated. They had left while the three of us were not entirely on good terms with one another- I'd been injured on our last hunt, and the boys decided that due to my various stitched-up cuts and broken arm that I wasn't fit to hunt. Of course I had argued that I was alright and could still be of help with the investigation and research parts of the case, but they had insisted and I eventually caved and stayed home. Which usually happened in these sorts of situations because they're basically my adoptive family and I honestly don't think anyone can resist Sam's puppy-dog eyes. I still was a little irritated with them for not taking me along, but I had gotten over it. Now I was mostly irritated with the dysfunction of my broken arm... 

I had searched the kitchen for food, but there was nothing that was really dinner-worthy. All we had was snack foods and, of course, a generous stock of beer in the refrigerator that the boys always kept on hand. I sighed... it wasn't as if I could go and get food- Dean and Sam had taken the Impala. I couldn't exactly get anything ordered either, since the whole point of having a secret bunker is to keep the location a secret. Suddenly, an idea popped into my head.

I looked up toward the ceiling above me, closed my eyes, and spoke into the air. "Umm... hey, Castiel. I'm not entirely sure how this whole pray for you to show up thing works, but if you're not doing anything tonight, I could use some help and maybe some company." I opened my eyes and looked around, but there was no angel to be seen.

I turned around to head back into the kitchen to grab my phone from the counter- and bumped directly into the angel I had asked for. "Cas!" I yelled as I jumped in surprise, my heart was . "For the love of everything holy, don't sneak up behind me like that!"

"I'm sorry, I didn't mean to frighten you," my angel friend apologized.

I blushed when I realized his hand had shot out to hold the upper part of my uninjured arm, to steady me when I had jumped. Cas seemed to realize this at the same time, and his cheeks flushed with a very pale tinge of pink and he removed his hand quickly. "It's fine," I reassured him, accepting the apology. "Just appear in front of me next time or something."

There was a small pause and then Castiel spoke again. "What did you need help with?"

"Dinner," I replied simply. "There's no food here and I have no way to get some, so could you pretty please do your angel transportation thing and pick me up something to eat?"

"I'd be happy to. What sort of food would you like?"

"Doesn't matter." I smiled and handed him my wallet to pay for the food. "Surprise me." The angel nodded and popped out of sight, with only the faint rustling of his trench coat to indicate the quick movement. I moved to sit at one of the chairs at the long table and waited for Cas to return. A few minutes later, he returned with a Chinese take-out container and passed my wallet back to me. I tossed my wallet next to my bag and opened the box of food. "Mmm, lo mein. Thanks, Cas." I smiled gratefully, and he smiled back. 

"You're welcome," he replied. "Do you need anything else?"

"No, I'm alright. But... if you want to stay and keep me company, I'd appreciate it." I blushed a little and then added, "Unless you have something to do, then go and-"

"No, I'll stay," Cas said, looking at me curiously. He took a seat at the table, across from me. "Where are Sam and Dean?" he asked.

I swallowed a mouthful of noodles before answering. "Working a job in Ohio. They think it's vampires, based on the information in the newspapers."

"Then why are you still here, alone?"

I vaguely gestured at my left arm in a sling and the stitches on my upper chest. "Apparently getting mauled by a werewolf last week disqualifies you from hunting." 

A look of worry passed over Cas's face, almost seeming to darken his bright blue eyes. "You shouldn't be going if you are hurt, but Sam and Dean shouldn't have left you alone." 

"It's fine, Cas," I reassured him, but internally questioning the slight hint of anger that had appeared in his voice. Cas had usually been protective of the Winchesters and me, but he rarely said it, or hinted at it when he was speaking.

"Your stitches need to be removed," he said matter-of-factly. I followed his eyes down to my chest, and got up to look at it for myself in a mirror that hung on the wall. He was right- the cut just under my collarbone had begun to heal over, and the stitches needed to be cut and taken out. I grabbed the first aid kit and opened it, taking out some wipes, and cleaning the cut and the scissors. I grabbed the scissors (and thanked god that I had broken my left arm and not my right) and then began to slowly snip away at the string, using my reflection in the mirror as a guide. 

Cas came up behind me and grabbed my wrist to stop me from struggling with the task one-handed. "Let me do it." I flushed and handed over the scissors to him, our fingers brushing as he took the instrument. He bent down a very small amount in order to see the stitches better and cut them very carefully, almost with a trained surgical precision. When he was finished, he took another wipe and gently cleaned my wound and taped a piece of gauze over top as a bandage. As he pressed the fabric to my chest, I hoped that he couldn't feel my heart beating at an out-of-control pace. But of course he could probably tell; he was an angel after all.

"All better," Cas spoke softly when he finished, his deep voice sending shivers down my spine as I also realized that his hand was still pressed gently on my chest, his fingers resting on my shoulder above.

Suddenly, as if possessed by all of my emotions at once, I grabbed the edge of Cas's signature tan trench coat and pulled him into me, our lips meeting in a passionate kiss. Cas was a better kisser than I'd expected for an angel who seemed to be a little inexperienced with the human world at times. We broke apart to catch our breath and I smiled up at him.

"That was a pleasant surprise," he said, and I laughed and kissed him again.

"We're home- what the _hell_?!?"

Cas and I broke apart to see an astonished looking Dean, who was the one who had spoken, and a grinning Sam who stood behind his brother. "Is this what you guys do when we're gone?" Dean asked, apparently still surprised. "I didn't know you had a thing for making out with angels."

"Hey, at least I don't pick up random girls that I don't know at bars," I retorted jokingly.

Dean pretended to be offended and Sam laughed. "Well, I'm happy for you guys," he said.

"Thanks, Sam," I said, smiling. '

"Yeah," Dean added, "Maybe getting laid will help you be a little less uptight, Cas." He clapped his angel friend on the shoulder as he passed.

Cas looked back at me and frowned. "I don't understand. What does laying down have to do with our relationship?"

Dean laughed. "You still have a lot to learn, Cas. But I'm sure y/n would be happy to teach you." He winked at the pair of us and I blushed fiercely.

"Don't listen to Dean, he doesn't know what he's talking about." I kissed Cas on the cheek. "Come on, let's go watch some TV or something."

   


	13. Storm: Sam Winchester

The storm raged on outside, rain pounding down upon the earth with great force. A bolt of lightning, striking close by, briefly lit up my dark bedroom in a flash of white light before the sound of the thunder rumbled a few seconds later, seemingly strong enough to shake the building. And I cowered beneath the sheets in bed, still awake at a little past three in the morning. Another flash of lightning and another boom of thunder, this time even closer, finally broke what little resolve of independence I had left. I grabbed a blanket, wrapping it around my shoulders like a cape, and left my bedroom, shutting the door behind me.

I wandered down the hallway of the bunker and stopped at a familiar door. I hesitated for a minute, but another thunder noise made me jump again, so I knocked softly. A few seconds passed and the door opened, revealing the tall figure of my boyfriend, Sam, standing in the doorway and blinking as his eyes adjusted to the light from the hall. 

"Can I stay with you tonight?" I asked quietly, looking up at him. His tired eyes swept over me, taking in my blanket-wrapped body, dressed in one of his old tee shirts with a pair of shorts as pajamas.

"Of course," he answered. "What's wrong?"

The wind picked up, making the rain even louder and the thunder rumbled again. "That," I said quietly, referring to the sounds of the storm.

"Oh yeah, I forgot you're afraid of thunderstorms." He spoke compassionately, but grinned in a teasing way.

"I'm not afraid," I protested lamely, "I just don't particularly like them."

Sam laughed. "Alright. Come in, then." He stepped back into the room and I stepped forward into it. I tossed my blanket on the floor by the closet and walked over to get into the bed, but suddenly Sam's arms were around me and he had picked me up bridal-style. I giggled as he walked me to the bed and laid me down gently before joining me there. I pulled up the sheets and tossed them over top of our bodies and shifted myself to be closer to Sam. One of his strong arms looped around my waist and he rubbed my back slowly, his hand tracing its way from closer to my hips, all the way up toward my shoulders. 

He frowned a little, a facial expression I could barely make out in the darkness. "You're tense," he said, his voice soft.

"Well yeah, I don't like storms and our life is not exactly stress-free," I quipped.

"Sit up," Sam nudged me with his elbow. "I'll massage your shoulders."

I sat up cross-legged while Sam sat behind me and worked out the knots with his large hands. "Wow, they really do teach everything at Stanford, don't they?" I asked jokingly.

Sam laughed quietly. Another lightning strike lit up the room, this time further away, but I still flinched. Sam rubbed my back comfortingly. "You're safe, baby; just relax."

"How can I hunt and kill things that normal people think are made up or have nightmares about, but I can't even handle a thunderstorm. It's stupid."

"Hey, it's not stupid," Sam said, helping to shift me around so that I was sitting and facing him. "We've all got to be afraid of something."

"You don't seem like you're ever afraid of anything," I mumbled, hanging my head.

"Look at me," Sam tilted my chin up gently until I was gazing back into his eyes. "I have been on so many hunts where I was scared as hell for myself, or for Dean, or for you. Fear is just a part of being human. And the fact that you're scared of storms but can take down a vampire without freaking out doesn't make you weak or lame or anything like that. It's just who you are."

I blushed a little at his words. Sam always knew how to make me feel better. "Thanks," I whispered, and kissed him.

When we broke apart, Sam addressed me again. "Why don't we get some sleep, so you're not too tired in the morning." I agreed, and I laid down on the bed, with Sam's arms wrapped around me, and drifted off to sleep as the storm receded.


End file.
